


Priceless Treasure

by deklava



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sex, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deklava/pseuds/deklava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has auctioned Sherlock's virginity off online. His only condition for final sale? He gets to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock pulled out his mobile to check the time. Nine o'clock. He'd been waiting over fifteen minutes now, and still no sign of the individual who claimed to know something about Moriarty's next scheme. Maybe John had been right and someone was having him on, but there was no way he couldn't follow up.

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and pulled his coat collar up against the biting wind. John had refused to come along, insisting that he wasn't going to freeze his arse off when the whole meet was "so obviously a prank."

The rumble of an approaching motor pulled him out of his reverie. He turned toward the sound, and saw a black limousine rolling slowly in his direction. It looked as out of place on this waterfront side street as a Prada original in a thrift shop.

Maybe there was something to this tip after all.

Sherlock stepped closer to the curb and waited until the limo reached him. It stopped, motor idling, and a tinted window rolled down.

"Sherlock Holmes?" a voice inquired from the shadowy interior.

"Yes." Sherlock bent forward cautiously, trying to see the passengers through the gloom. He gasped when a strong hand seized his upper arm and something sharp pressed against his ribs.

"Get in the car," a deep voice growled inches from his ear.

Sherlock froze. Oh shit. He looked over his shoulder and saw a heavyset man wearing dark glasses and a bulky winter coat. The assailant jabbed him warningly: a knife.

"Get in the car, Holmes. Don't make me hurt you."

Trying to stay calm enough to assess his situation and formulate an escape plan, Sherlock opened the rear passenger door. Rough hands shoved him onto the seat before the assailant climbed in after him, closed the door, and pressed a gleaming blade to his throat. At the same time, another pair of hands slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth, blindfolded him, and secured his wrists with plastic ties.

"All right, mate, you just stay put and I won't use this," the man with the knife said as the limo moved back into the street and continued on its journey. "But if you lift one finger or give any trouble, and I swear I'll carve you a second mouth."

Sherlock, despite his resolution to stay calm, felt cold terror sink in. Was this it? His final mistake? Morbid images flooded his mind: Lestrade finding his mangled remains in an alley and calling Mycroft or John –John- to formally identify them. Molly unzipping the thick canvas body bag at the morgue and finding pieces of him inside. He began to shake and his breath came out in rapid gasps.

"Come on, relax. Who knows, you might even enjoy what's been planned for you."

Enjoy an event that started out this way? Not likely. Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and willed himself to calm down, but could not control his trembling.


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson was pacing back and forth in the Italian ambassador's study. He'd never dreamed that Sherlock's virginity would command such a high price in the online auction. Any pangs of conscience had swiftly been assuaged when the money arrived in his offshore account.

He reminded himself that it wasn't as if he'd delivered his flatmate and friend for execution. The man was a thirty-four year old VIRGIN, for Christ's sake, and that went a lot way toward explaining some of Sherlock's neuroses. He'd probably delete what was going to happen to him tonight, but somewhere, in the part of that amazing brain that controlled his emotions, there would surely be an improvement. Perhaps he'd start caring more. About the people he was supposed to save. And stop deriding John for trying to make him into a hero.

John felt better already.

He paused in front of the computer monitor that was displaying the CCTV feed. Before leaving to get ready, the ambassador- Signor Corelli- told him that Sherlock had just been picked up and was en route. John peered at the screen, taking in the ornate room where the anticipated event would take place. He told himself that he wanted to watch in order to ensure that Sherlock didn't come to serious harm.

To admit to darker reasons would make him feel like less of a friend.

******

The car finally stopped, and Sherlock was more terrified than ever. He was dragged out into the cold night and hustled into a building that smelled faintly of rich cooking (olive oil, tomatoes- Italian?) and expensive wood furniture. As soon as his captors halted and cut the plastic ties off his wrists (while keeping a solid grip on his arms) he gave in to panic and began to struggle violently.

Upstairs, John pulled a chair up to the computer monitor and watched as the gagged and blindfolded Sherlock was pulled into the room by two men while a third followed. There was no sign of Corelli yet, but everything else was in place.

Sherlock twisted and bucked fiercely as he was wrestled toward a four-poster bed in the richly furnished bedroom. Grunting behind the duct tape, he aimed a savage kick at one of his captors, but missed and threw himself off-balance instead. The three men seized the opportunity to lift him off his feet and force him onto his back on the bed.

John watched breathlessly, his nose inches from the monitor screen. While one man pinned Sherlock's wrists high above his head on the mattress and another held his twisting thighs together, the third went over to an ornate desk in the corner, opened a drawer, and took out the small glass bottle and disposable syringe that John had supplied earlier. After casting a disapproving glance at Sherlock's still-frantic bucking on the mattress, he filled the syringe and approached.

Sherlock tensed when he felt unseen hands slide his coat sleeve up and bare his arm below the bicep. A deep voice soothed, "You're only making it harder on yourself by carrying on like this. Just settle down."

The man leaned over, drove the needle into his inner elbow, and pressed the plunger down, injecting the sedative. Seconds later, Sherlock felt his struggles weaken and paralyzing warmth settle over his entire body. The tape was peeled off his mouth but it was as if his throat was packed with sand, leaving him unable to cry out. He was still afraid, but his heart rate was slowing and the earlier panic subsided to a dull anxiety.

The hands that had formerly been restraining him now began to pull off his clothes. His Belstaff coat was the first to go, followed by his shirt, shoes, and socks. When he felt his belt being unbuckled and trousers slid down, he moaned in protest and tried to fight again, but his limbs refused to obey. Sherlock whimpered when his boxers were removed, leaving him completely naked.

"Stop," he groaned.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock," a new voice said in a tone meant to be reassuring. "No one will hurt you."


	3. Chapter 3

From his vantage point at the computer, John saw Corelli enter the room and speak to his intended victim. The ambassador was middle-aged, and a good-looking man with the type of magnetic personality that averted crises and inspired confidence. He had promised John that Sherlock wouldn't be harmed tonight, and the doctor believed him. Someone willing to pay that much for a plaything wouldn't break it easily, would he?

While John watched, Corelli approached until he was standing at the edge of the bed, between Sherlock's dangling thighs. His broad hands rested lightly against the detective's knees. "So beautiful," he crooned in the voice that had seduced scores of men and women in the past. He leaned forward, the expensive fabric of his tailored suit brushing against Sherlock's naked flesh, and claimed his prize's mouth in a deep, lingering kiss.

Sherlock tried to turn his head away and push the unseen assailant off, but all he could manage to do was moan into the other man's mouth. When Corelli broke the kiss, he stroked Sherlock's cheek and said in a voice heavy with arousal, "I can't imagine why you never let anyone make love to this body before. You've been selfish." His other hand caressed Sherlock's throat before trailing down to his nipples and teasing them with gentle pinches until they were fully erect.

"Very nice. So responsive. You were made for this."

So this man knew he was a virgin then. But how? Oh dear God, was that why he'd been picked up tonight? Was he going to be raped? Would they kill him afterward? As long as the blindfold stayed on, probably not, but-

Sherlock's thoughts were derailed when he felt a warm hand close around his cock and begin to stroke it firmly. His stomach tightened and he squirmed against the rich duvet. He'd touched himself in the past, although not lately, and having someone else do it inspired equal levels of arousal and fear.

"No. Please…." he begged weakly. He flushed as the skilful manipulation caused his penis to swell and become hard, and an uncomfortable heat start brewing in his lower belly.

"No, Sherlock. You may not realize it now, but you need this. You wouldn't be able to function much longer without it. Listen to your body, young man. Doesn't this feel good?"

Sherlock felt sick that he could not deny it. He rolled his head from side to side, fighting the dizziness caused by the sedation and arousal combined.

Watching upstairs, John licked his lips at the lazy and seductive hand job and wondered if he could risk touching himself in a building with more cameras than Fashion Week. The pangs of conscience grew weaker by the second. Sherlock so obviously needed this. Badly.

Corelli released his hold, stepped back, and signaled to his silent associates, who dutifully turned Sherlock onto his stomach. Despite the intoxicating softness of the duvet and mattress, Sherlock cringed as he felt hands on him, but when they only caressed his back and shoulders he started to relax in spite of his fear. He heard the click of a plastic cap opening and smelled something spicy–cinnamon? Cloves?

Then liquid was being massaged onto his back and thighs, something that sank warmly into his sore muscles and radiated a comforting heat. A childhood memory sprang up- he had pulled a tendon in his leg after some schoolyard mishap, and after sharply ordering Mycroft to stop smirking, Mummy was rubbing ointment on the injury, her gentle touch making the hurt go away-

He gasped when the hands reached his buttocks and gave them a gentle squeeze before prying them apart.


	4. Chapter 4

John couldn't help it- his trembling fingers undid his jeans and he palmed himself eagerly through his underwear. Seeing Sherlock lying on that richly brocaded duvet, all long and slender and pale, his white arse being forced open by a pair of brawny hands- it was more exhilarating than he'd imagined it would be.

In the room, unaware of how much the man he considered his best friend was getting off on his distress, Sherlock whimpered and tried to squirm away. Extra hands latched onto his shoulders and wrists and secured him in place.

"Shhhh. Easy," Corelli whispered. "I'm going to make you feel so good."

Sherlock flinched as he felt cold gel being smeared along his arse crack. A lubricated finger trailed teasingly along his crevice before gently pushing inside him. It didn't hurt, but the intimate touch did feel alien and uncomfortable. The detective tried –and failed- to renew his struggles. The finger probed until it settled against his prostate and began massaging. Sherlock let out a sharp cry and arched his back as hot, vicious pleasure assaulted his senses.

"Stop!" he begged.

"You don't really want me to stop. So I won't. After you leave here tonight, you'll want to do this all the time. And I'll always know that I was the one who made you so passionate."

Corelli's hand slid greedily along his slender waist while a second slick finger joined the first. Both digits plunged deeply inside his tight virgin channel and began scissoring, stirring up a pleasure-pain that made the detective's senses reel.

It was at that moment that John experienced his first real sense of regret. Sherlock's distress didn't trouble him; he really believed that a good pounding would change the other man for the better. But despite the obscene amount of money he'd been paid, he found himself wishing that it was his hand –and later his cock- that undid the great Sherlock Holmes. The frigid intellectual who shared the Baker Street flat with him was now squirming and moaning- but not for him.

******

Sherlock experienced a moment's respite from the horrible pleasure when the fingers withdrew from his now-stretched hole. Before he could relax, the soft rasp of a zipper coming down reached his ears, followed by the click of a tube cap opening and the squelch of lube being applied. He raised his head and groggily attempted to rise off the bed, but strong hands pushed him back down, forced his thighs open and raised his hips so that a thick pillow could be shoved underneath them.

"God, please-" he started to beg. The bedsprings creaked as a heavy weight arranged itself between his legs and something warm and slick and large pressed against his greased opening. He felt the fabric of tailored trousers brush against his thighs as Corelli maneuvered into position. Then a powerful chest covered by a silk shirt pressed down against his back, pushing him into the mattress and cutting off his last hope of escape.

Fingers ran through his dark curls. "Take a deep breath, Sherlock. This might be a bit uncomfortable at first."

The detective cried out as he was stretched wider than the fingering had prepared him for. His arse burned as a swollen cockhead shoved against his sphincter until it popped inside. It hurt- how could people do this and enjoy it? He felt like he was being torn open, but his assailant showed no signs of stopping. Grunts of "Oh, yes, perfect" and "So goddamn tight- worth every penny" continued as Sherlock's arse spasmed in agony. When he began to sob, a warm hand caressed his cheek.

"Relax, pet. I'm all the way in- the worst is over. Breathe. Then I'm going to show you what you've been missing."

******

Upstairs, John was coming undone in a different way. He was fisting his hard cock, unable to tear his eyes away from the drama playing out on the screen. Sherlock looked so undone, so dominated- pinned to that luxurious bed with a thick, red cock buried to the hilt between those smooth cheeks. For a few minutes he closed his eyes, tightened the grip on his erection, and imagined that he was the one turning his flatmate into a moaning, shaking mess.

Then he reached back, and the fingers of his unoccupied hand closed around something else that was warm and hard: the handle of his Army-issue automatic. He'd tucked it into the waistband of his jeans, snug against his lower back, before setting out tonight.

Time to launch the final phase of his plan.


	5. Chapter 5

While Sherlock groaned, Corelli pulled out slowly, relishing the tight heat. Seeing that their boss had his toy under control, the three bodyguards stepped away from their positions and filed out. One of them muttered, "Call us when you're done, Signor. We'll be in the study."

"Help yourself to whatever you want in the bar," he replied hoarsely before plunging back into the tight body beneath him. Sherlock grunted at the none-too-gentle impact. Corelli assumed a driving rhythm with his hips, fucking the detective into the squeaking mattress. "God, you're so tight. Magnificent. Maybe I'll keep you instead of sending you home."

When the older man moved his hips in a circular motion, grazing Sherlock's prostate with each downward thrust, Sherlock bit his full lip until he tasted blood. It felt so damned good- the earlier burning pain had subsided first to a dull ache and then a heady feeling of fullness- and that upset him more.

He had lost his virginity to a kidnapper, someone who from the sounds of things had paid for him like he was an easily attained rent boy. His swelling cock, which was rubbing tortuously against the blankets, was a party in his complete betrayal.

Corelli paused to pull himself up and grasp Sherlock's bony hips. "Up on your knees, pet! It'll make you feel even better."

"Fuck you!"

"Interesting choice of words, young man." The ambassador reached under Sherlock's body, grasped his cock, and began tugging on it with a lube-slick hand. "You love my cock buried deep in your arse, don't you? You never thought it would feel so good, did you?"

Sherlock felt himself deteriorating. He wanted rescue. He wanted John. God help him, he even wanted Mycroft now. A choked sob broke through his tightly pressed lips.

"Well just you wait, Sherlock." Corelli managed to sound suave and controlled even when his hips were snapping a mile a minute and sweat sprayed from his brow. "I'm going to come in your arse, and then make you come all over my hand. And this is just the beginning- you're mine now. Mine. I'm going to fuck you every morning- seal my cum inside you with a plug afterward, so I'm in you even when I'm not- and do it all again when I return-"

The man was talking himself into a violent orgasm, and Sherlock let him do it without really listening. While he thrust into his captor's fist, he silently pleaded for rescue….

CRACK!

Sherlock screamed at the noise. When he smelled gunpowder and felt blood spray across his back like warm rain just before a warm, heavy weight collapsed onto him, he shrieked until the darkness claimed him.


	6. Chapter 6

When Sherlock regained consciousness, he was initially alarmed to find the blindfold gone. He squinted, refusing to open his eyes completely and see anything that might sign his death warrant.

"Sherlock, it's okay. You're safe. It's me."

John!

Sherlock sat up so abruptly that the room- the Baker Street sitting room- spun. Familiar hands grasped his shoulders and lowered him back onto the sofa cushions. John was staring down at him with that look of exasperated concern that used to make him roll his eyes. Now he was so overwhelmed with relief at the sight that he began to cry, great choking sobs.

"Easy, mate. I'm here." John leaned forward, gathered Sherlock in his arms, and rocked him. The detective wept into the front of his jumper, cheek rubbing against the soft fibers.

"You saved me?"

"Yes. Followed the GPS tracker on your phone when you didn't answer it, but had a hard time getting to you."

Actually, John mused, it hadn't been so hard. The bodyguards had been dispatched as easily as Corelli. A pre-arranged call to Mycroft had gotten the bodies removed and the surveillance tape destroyed. As he pressed his lips softly into Sherlock's curls, John recalled the conversation he and Mycroft had had while the latter's minions loaded the re-sedated detective into a government car for the ride home.

_"You're sure he wasn't harmed, John?"_

_"Not in any way that won't heal."_

_"Good. I only allowed you to go through with this because I believe you're right. Sherlock's stubborn celibacy has probably contributed a great deal to his intractability."_

_"Well, I can tell you that going days without eating or sleeping makes him a bastard to live with. A lifetime without more than the odd wank? Any longer and we'd be faced with the Baker Street Ripper."_

_Mycroft had laughed. Then his face grew serious._

_"Remember the rest of the bargain, John. That offshore account now has more money than you know what to do with, and I've added to it. Resign from the surgery. Sherlock is your full-time responsibility from now on."_

_"Yes. Of course."_

Sherlock's sobs quieted, although he remained buried against John's jumper. "They raped me."

"Yes, and they're all dead now. The man who attacked you, the ones who picked you up in the first place- gone. Mycroft took care of it."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock raised his chin sharply. Then he shuddered and relaxed again. Of course. There was no way something like this would ever escape his brother's notice. "John, just hold me, all right?"

"Of course." The doctor's arms tightened around him. A few minutes passed. Then Sherlock shifted and spoke.

"John, how could anyone enjoy sex? It was horrible."

"You didn't have sex, Sherlock. You were assaulted sexually. Big difference."

"I doubt it."

"Trust me, there is. I'm sorry to ask such a question, but weren't there times when it felt good? When you got an erection?" John inhaled deeply through his nose, willing his cock to not stir at the memory.

Sherlock paused. "Just a natural response to stimulation."

"Yes, but imagine experiencing that pleasure from someone who loves you. Someone you trust. Wouldn't be horrible at all, Sherlock. Believe me."

John could tell that Sherlock was cross-posting this new data with the impressions obtained while Corelli was fucking him. "Perhaps not," the younger man finally mumbled. "John, I can't keep my eyes open. Keep holding me while I sleep, will you?"

"I promise."

When Sherlock's eyes closed and his breathing became more regular, John allowed himself to smile triumphantly. He'd said all the right things, and it wouldn't be long before Sherlock was his completely.


End file.
